


Outtake #1 : My Empire for A King

by valmontheights



Series: Orbitverse [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 18:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13129788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmontheights/pseuds/valmontheights
Summary: The first in a series of outtakes from "Keep Me in Close Orbit". In that story, I wrote Hunter suggesting to Roman that they sneak into the WWE warehouse in Connecticut and have sex on his Wrestlemania entrance throne. I got so many demands to turn it into an actual scene, so here it is. You're welcome.





	Outtake #1 : My Empire for A King

 

 

“You…are out of your damn mind,” Roman hissed sharply, though he couldn’t quite mask the wide grin that was splitting his face. His heart was thundering in his chest as he followed Hunter through the darkness, minding his step so he didn’t accidentally trip on the boxes and bits of dismantled props that lay on the floor.

 

“I seem to recall you agreeing that this was a bright idea the first time I brought it up,” Hunter said back in a whisper, playfulness clearly audible in his voice.

 

“I did, I just didn’t think you’d—“

 

“That I’d actually pull it off?” Hunter looked back at him and smirked. “I’m disappointed, baby…you should know by now that I have my way of getting things done.”

 

“Ain’t that the truth…” Roman smiled back. “How can you even find your way around this place, I have no idea…”

 

It was well past midnight and they were winding their way through the maze-like corridors of the WWE Warehouse in Norwalk, Connecticut, Hunter having bribed or otherwise convinced the caretakers to let them in—and hopefully shut off the surveillance cameras for the night, given what Roman knew the older man was planning.

 

The warehouse was large and cavernous, floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed full of dismantled rings, staging rigs, backdrops, memorabilia, costumes, as well as various odd bits and pieces in every nook and cranny. Roman couldn’t quite work out a method to all the madness even though Hunter assured him that the people in charge of the facility knew exactly what was stored where and how to retrieve anything that needed to be dusted off for use.

 

“I don’t quite have the floor plan memorized…” Hunter confessed. “But I know where to find the most interesting bits.”

 

Roman had to smile quietly at that, trotting up to walk alongside Hunter as they reached a part of the warehouse floor where the corridors widened somewhat. “I woudn’t be surprised if they had one room reserved just for _your_ interesting bits…”

 

“Well…” Hunter shrugged.

 

“Oh my God…” Roman rolled his eyes, nearly tripping over a roll of steel ring cables. “You totally do, don’t you?”

 

“I didn’t ask for it…” Hunter said as he swung an arm casually around Roman’s shoulders. “They just told me one day, ‘hey we’re shoving all of your junk into one room at the warehouse’ and that was that.”

 

Roman chuckled into the crook of Hunter’s elbow. He’s a little frayed and sleepy—Hunter had all but kidnapped him after a RAW taping, shoved him in the back of his limo and took him on a long interstate drive to Connecticut—one made bearable by the fact that they spent almost the entirety of it necking like a pair of teenagers in the back seat. Hunter held off from anything past kissing and groping, though—probably determined to save the main event for their destination. It was a remarkable feat of self-restraint for the both of them, having not seen each other for a few weeks, Hunter being overseas on business and Roman on tour with the rest of the RAW roster.

 

“Is that where we’re going?” he asked as Hunter muscled open a door to a sideroom, fumbling in the darkness for the light switch.

 

“You’ll see…” 

 

Hunter turned the lights on, and for a moment of blinding brightness Roman had to squeeze his eyes shut, letting out a yelp and turning his head into Hunter’s shoulder to shield them.

 

“Sorry, baby…I think they changed the lights in here recently. Wasn’t this bright the last time I was here,” Hunter said apologetically, patting his head. Roman heard him flipping a few switches before whispering, “There…that should do it,”

 

Roman blinked his eyes open, finding that Hunter had switched off all but one strip of the ceiling-mounted lights, leaving the room at a much more tolerable level of brightness than a few seconds ago.

 

“Better?” Hunter said as he kissed the shell of Roman’s ear.

 

“Mmmm…” Roman nodded, casting a glance around the room to take in its contents. It’s a long, rectangular storage room, the furthest part of it from the door still shrouded in darkness, but the parts of it Roman could see were stuffed full of all kinds of props and memorabilia—more specifically, those pertaining to Hunter’s career.

 

The way the objects were arranged was haphazard, no effort to turn them into any particular display—this was a storage facility, after all—and it took away some of the air of self-centered ostentatiousness that Roman couldn’t help but see in Hunter sometimes. Hunter was long past denying it, he’d said so on multiple occasions, but Roman was glad the room wasn’t any kind of shrine, devoid of the carefully-edited gloss that often accompanied a WWE production.

 

“It’s…” he stuttered. “It’s a _lot_ of stuff.”

 

Hunter chuckled, the sound of it reverberating against Roman’s chest. “It’s been a lot of years.”

 

Roman disentangled himself from his older lover to explore the room a bit, peering into carboard boxes and wiping dust off old framed posters and promotional banners. Hunter’s younger face stared up at him from almost every item, that ever-present scowl and the long blond locks of his glory days, the well-defined musculature lit by green stage lights as he took his signature pose on the ring apron.

 

He picked up a slightly-frayed DX poster, Hunter and Shawn composed with a dodgy Photoshop job against a lurid green backdrop, smug faces promising anarchy and questionable taste. He couldn’t help but smile, remembering the antics he used to watch on TV, all that posturing and innuendo that wouldn’t fly in the PG era.

 

“Do you know that you’re one of the reasons I almost wasn’t allowed to watch RAW?” Roman said as he put the poster back in its place.

 

“I’m the reason a _lot_ of kids weren’t allowed to watch RAW,” Hunter said sheepishly, stepping a little closer.

 

“Mom didn’t want me to watch it…but then again Jimmy and Jey were watching because their Dad was on, so she had to let me watch it, too…”

 

“Hmmm…” Hunter slipped in beside him, one hand braced on the steel shelves Roman was standing in front of. “I gotta admit, it did get a little awkward once we started seeing the little ones in the crowd, crotch-chopping and saying ‘suck it’ and all that…”

 

Roman laughed. “Yeah, Mom wasn’t all that thrilled when we started doing it in the backyard…”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“Me?” Roman squinted to remember. “I dunno…twelve? Thirteen?”

 

“Oh, dear…” Hunter said, his voice turning smug. “That certainly makes me feel like a dirty old man…”

 

“You are, you creepy old fuck…” Roman chided playfully.

 

“Hmmm….” Hunter muttered silkily as he snaked his arms around Roman’s waist, pulling him back a little. “With apologies to Mrs. Anoa’i…I think it’s safe to say that I’ve ruined her precious baby boy.”

 

Roman laughed, squirming into the strong embrace. “We need to stop talking about my mother before shit gets really weird…”

 

“Very well,” Hunter nipped gently at the base of his neck. “That’s not what we came here to do, anyhow…”

 

“Lead the way,” Roman whispered, almost regretting it when Hunter released him, though he kept hold of Roman’s left wrist.

 

Hunter led him past a shelving unit that stood floor-to-ceiling, partitioning the room roughly into two halves, into the still-dark area. Roman paused to contemplate a framed poster on the wall, still with the old RAW is WAR logo, a picture of Hunter in his ring-gear shot in profile, depicting him in all his muscular glory, in what was undoubtedly the peak of his career, the old winged eagle title belt wrapped snugly around his waist.

 

“What’s the matter, baby?” Hunter tugged his arm. “Part of you wishing I still looked like that?”

 

“Hell, no…” Roman turned away from the poster and laced his hands at the back of Hunter’s neck, pulling him close and knocking their foreheads, not-too-gently, together. “I love my Daddy just the way he is, thanks.”

 

Hunter smirked, eyes glimmering with mischief, though Roman could detect the genuine warmth in his reaction, too. “You wouldn’t have liked me back then…” he muttered. “Too loud. Too pushy. All ambition, no wisdom to temper it.”

 

“Too much denim, also…” Roman deadpanned, which earned him a playful smack on his backside. “Oww!”

 

“Don’t be a smartass, baby…” Hunter warned him, voice growing thick and dark as he mouthed at Roman’s bottom lip. “I’m not exactly looking to take it nice and slow tonight…”

 

“I sure hope not,” Roman mumbled, matching his lover’s tone. “It’s been a long day, and someone promised me an encounter with a _King_ …”

 

Hunter’s grin turned devious, one arm reaching towards the wall to flip another set of light switches. “The King of Kings, you mean…”

 

There, in the center of this section of the room, placed right under a single halogen bulb, was the object of their tresspassing. Hunter’s Wrestlemania throne, an ostentatious piece of design evoking heavy metal album covers from decades past, backed with the iconic iron cross and festooned with more skulls than could possibly be appropriate to display in one’s lifetime, Randy Orton’s arms be damned. It was overwrought and un-sleek, Hunter’s chain-mail crown and skull mask placed reverently on the seat, while gaping-mouthed skulls on spikes flanked each armrest.

 

It was ridiculous from top to bottom, which spoke volumes about Hunter as a performer and the skill of WWE’s staging crew because somehow, impossibly, they always made it _work_. Roman remembered it most from three Wrestlemanias ago, when Hunter appeared in a haze of smoke, crowned and crimson-veiled, accompanied by three masked female attendants—Charlotte, Sasha, and Alexa. They weren’t fucking then, their feud was still months away and all he knew of Hunter outside of work was from Seth’s sordid tales, but even Roman couldn’t deny the shudder that went through him when Hunter had stood and unmasked himself to the crescendo of the bellicose orchestral music they’d chosen for his entrance.

 

“It looks stupid without you sitting on it,” he managed to blurt out, to which Hunter replied with a derisive chuckle.

 

“It’s stupid either way,” the older man said. “But hey, theatrics, you know?”

 

Roman’s version of theatrics was appearing from the crowd flanked by his brothers, or Superman-punching a row of well-timed fireworks into the sky, nothing as solid and as elaborate as Hunter’s storeroom of props. Around the throne he could see bits and pieces of Hunter’s other Wrestlemania entrances—the disembodied skulls from the Terminator one, the Spartan shields and spears, various cowls and masks and variations of the iron cross design.

 

“I thought you said they just ‘shoved all your junk into one room’,” he commented. “This is different.”

 

“This isn’t really categorized as junk, not yet.” Hunter explained. “All of this can still be dusted off for future use.”

 

“Huh,” Roman mumbled thoughtfully, casting a glance around the room. The last time Hunter’s throne had been used was for a promo, leading up to his Wrestlemania match against Seth. Roman could still recall the visuals, the older man stalking around his throne under dramatic lighting, his growly narration spewing things like _Creator. Destroyer. King._

 

Hunter stepped towards the throne, casually picking up the crown from the seat and turning it in his hands. “I hated this fucking thing…tickled my nose something fierce.”

 

“You had those…spiky things on your shoulders, too…” Roman said. “Almost poked Sasha’s eyes out.”

 

Hunter chuckled and set the crown down on a stack of boxes in the corner of the room. Then he walked back towards the throne, studying it intently for a moment before turning around and seating himself on it in one swift, graceful motion. Roman’s throat went dry in about half a second flat.

 

“Well?” Hunter cocked an eyebrow at him, voice low and deliberate. “Aren’t you a little overdressed to be in the presence of the King, boy?”

 

It’s utterly ridiculous, this and everything that went with it, but Roman’s hands went up to fumble with the zip of his hoodie nonetheless, annoyed by how much they were already shaking.

 

 _We’re really fucking doing this_ , he thought as he let his clothing fall into a puddle on the floor. He felt Hunter’s eyes on him the entire time he did it, trying to be efficient while not betraying too much of his nervous anticipation. By all means, there was no reason for him to be nervous. It was just Hunter, after all, just another one of their little games, and for all intents and purposes all they were about to do was fuck. On a chair. A glorified, skull-bedazzled abomination of a chair, but still a chair.

 

Roman shook loose his sneakers and slid down his sweatpants and underwear in one go, before stepping out of the heap of fabric on the floor. The cold of the concrete seeped into his bare feet, a chill snaking up his body as he stood and straightened up, naked save for the thick band of braided leather wrapped around his left ankle and the pendant hanging from it.

 

Hunter saw it too, eyes flitting towards Roman’s left foot as he stepped cautiously towards the base of the throne, and Roman thought he saw the flicker of a smile that Hunter couldn’t quite suppress, a little sentimentality bleeding into the cold mask of control he was so fond of putting on when they played games like these.

 

“How long has it been since I put that thing on you?” he asked.

 

“A year…” Roman said. He didn’t have it down to the exact date but he could still remember the moment clear as yesterday, and all that came with it.

 

“How time flies,” Hunter remarked with all the casual air of a disinterested news anchor. They weren’t much for celebrating milestones—it seemed too much like force-fitting normalcy shackles onto a relationship that was anything _but_. Roman was grateful for what little time they could have together—more often than not, like now, it was time that Hunter orchestrated, wrenched forcefully from their crazy schedule with all the precision and planning of a covert military operation. Roman tried not to think too much about the number of people under Hunter’s employ that had to juggle and shift things around and make last-minute changes to accommodate their little escapades—an extra night at a hotel room in one city, a rental car and a driver in another. He chose to focus instead on being flattered that all this effort had been expended on him, something that still gave him a flutter of warmth even after all these years.

 

He was easy to woo, what else could he say?

 

“Come here…” Hunter beckoned him closer, and Roman complied, moving to stand right in front of the throne, standing in the space between Hunter’s knees. He closed his eyes as he felt Hunter’s breath ghosting across his bare stomach, trying to quell the rapid beating of his heart.

 

Hunter’s hands moved to touch him, calloused palms moving across his skin, running up his torso and down his thighs, exploratory, _assessing_. As if he was touching Roman for the first time, as if Roman’s body hadn’t been his possession to do with as he pleased for nearly three years. The thought made Roman shudder, exacerbated by Hunter’s hands coming to rest on his hips and yanking him a little closer.

 

“A fine tribute,” Hunter said as he looked up at Roman. “Who wouldn’t want something so beautiful? Anyone would desire this…” he pressed a close-mouthed kiss to Roman’s navel. “…but only the King gets to have it.”

 

Roman inhaled sharply, the heat already stirring inside his belly. “Only you…” he agreed.

 

“Turn around,” Hunter said. “Show me more.”

 

Roman complied, pivoting on his feet to present his backside, shivering when he felt Hunter’s lips on the small of his back.

 

“Down,” Hunter commanded. “On your knees.”

 

The realization of what Hunter wanted to do hit Roman about halfway down, making him bite his lip, for once glad that Hunter couldn’t see the naked desperation on his face, or the way his cock was beginning to fill up, just from the slightest of touches and the sound of Hunter’s voice. He arranged himself on the floor, kneeling as close as he could to the throne and pitching his body forward, bracing his hands on the floor, a movement which thrust his ass up for Hunter’s viewing pleasure.

 

Not that Hunter intended to simply enjoy the view—his hands grew more aggressive in their roving exploration, taking more flesh in his grip each time he fondled Roman’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart to expose Roman’s hole.

 

“Now, there’s a fine little prize right there…” Hunter hummed with amusement, a teasing finger skittering playfully at Roman’s rim. “Is this for me?”

 

“Yes…” Roman gasped, hanging his head between his shoulders.

 

He had to stifle a moan moments later when, without warning, he felt Hunter’s tongue on him, licking a wet stripe around his hole. Roman felt his cheeks flush, heart pounding in his chest as he felt himself dripping onto the floor. There he was, on all fours on a cold warehouse floor, naked and exposed as Hunter had his way with him, in a space so far removed from safety and privacy that he couldn’t help the thrill that coursed through his veins.

 

“You taste good…” Hunter said between insistent licks. “I bet you’d feel good, too…if you could take me.”

 

“I can…” Roman said, biting the inside of his cheek as he foced the words out. “I will.”

 

Those were words someone had slapped on his merchandise sometime last year, words that were supposed to convey some kind of macho determination to win, right up there alongside ‘one versus all’ in the litany of taglines they’d churned out in a desperate attempt to make him more palatable to the paying public. Here, with cool air on his heated skin and Hunter’s hands imprinting fingers on his flesh, everything took a whole new meaning.

 

Context, and Hunter, indeed were king.

 

There was a cold smear of lubricant added to the mix, Hunter’s expert fingers preparing him for the inevitable, and Roman lost all pretense of trying to be quiet when those fingers effortlessly found his sensitive little spot, pressing and teasing until his knees threatened to give out with the intense pleasure.

 

“Eager to please your king, are you boy?”

 

Roman nodded, throat too dry and constricted to speak.

 

“Get up here,” Hunter finally said. “Time for me to get what’s mine.”

 

 _Yours_ , Roman repeated inside his head as he struggled to get back on his feet. _Yours, yours, yours._

 

Hunter was still seated primly on the throne, nothing to denote his lustful state save for the slight sheen of sweat on his face and the erection tenting his pants. He pulled Roman’s hands to his crotch, wordlessly commanding him to get him ready, a task Roman found difficult with how much his fingers were shaking. Still, he managed to unbuckle Hunter’s belt and pull his zip down, enough to get his dick out and hold it between his hands, massaging the hard length as he locked eyes with Hunter again.

 

“Your hands feel nice…but I think you have somewhere nicer for me to put it,” Hunter said, voice still so maddeningly even.

 

Roman bit down on his own lip sharply as he moved to climb onto the throne, gripping the back of it to balance himself as he placed each leg over the armrests, Hunter’s hands gripping firmly at his waist as he lowered himself. Halfway through it Hunter took over and angled his dick just right to slip into Roman’s slick entrance, and Roman squeezed his eyes shut as his head fell onto Hunter’s shoulder, savoring every inch that slowly breached him.

 

“Ahh…” he let out a gasp as Hunter bottomed out, seating Roman snugly on his lap. Hunter finally cracked a smile at him, kissing the base of his neck.

 

“Beautiful…” the older man muttered with what sounded like genuine awe, and Roman let go of the back of the throne to wrap his arms around Hunter’s neck instead, hanging on for the wild ride he knew was coming.

 

Hunter certainly didn’t disappoint—the instant he could feel Roman letting go he sprang into action, setting a quick pace that had his dick jabbing up into Roman with each thrust, knocking a throaty whine out of him each time, his mouth latched onto the sweat-slick skin of Roman’s neck and shoulders.

 

“Next time…” Hunter grunted out between his motions. “Next time I think…I _will_ do it just like this…show the whole world…what you are…who you belong to…”

 

Roman moaned, burying his head in Hunter’s shoulder.

 

“An audience of millions, can you imagine that?” Hunter said, punctuating his words with a sharp nip at Roman’s earlobe. “Seeing you for the slut that you are, how eager you are to ride my dick…how much you enjoy it…”

 

The fantasy wasn’t new but it was heightened immeasurably by the surroundings, Roman’s calves starting to bruise along the edges of the throne as he bounced on Hunter’s cock, hanging onto his every word.

 

“You’d love it, won’t you? You’d love showing them that you’re mine, that you’re so willing to do all this…for me…”

 

“Fuck, yes…” Roman hissed against Hunter’s jaw. “Anything, anything, _fuck…”_

 

 _“_ You’re so beautiful when you’re like this—hungry, desperate….bet you’d get them all salivating over you…” he flicked his tongue over Roman’s left nipple. “But you’re _mine_.”

 

Roman took Hunter’s face in his hands, a bold move, and kissed him. It’s become a mantra, so often repeated, over and over until it should have lost its magic. But it hadn’t, it was still the solid anchor in his untethered life, the mornings where he could wake up feeling Hunter next to him and know that he was home, the glances they exchange when the cameras weren’t rolling that meant so much given how little time they actually had.

 

 _Yours_ , he mouthed into the kiss. _Yours_.

 

Hunter didn’t try to break the kiss but his right hand did move, grabbed at Roman’s left ankle where it hung over the throne’s armrest, fingers wrapping around the leather band and the jingling pendant. He knew. He’d always known.

 

An audience of millions. A stadium full of people. A backstage full of other performers, people he’d known all his life. His cousins. They didn’t know. Even Seth and Dean, who knew some of it, couldn’t even begin to know all of it.

 

Hunter’s climax crashed into Roman with the force of a rolling wave, arms suddenly tightening around him like a cage, knocking the air out of his lungs as he felt it, the copious spill of it inside of him, the warmth and the mess and the shameless, unbroken moan that tore from his throat.

 

He clung to Hunter as his own peak came and took over him, jacked by Hunter’s hand, the bloodrush in his ears so loud he could almost pretend he was hearing the roar of a crowd, witnessing his defilement, seeing him laid bare for what he truly was, the world narrowing to this single moment in time, seated on Hunter’s lap, on his throne, a symbol of his power and control, kayfabe or otherwise. Over Roman, over his dominion, over everything.

 

They stayed like that, long after Hunter had softened enough to slip out of Roman’s body, long after Roman’s pulse had stabilized enough for him to speak again. He didn’t, though, just stayed perched on Hunter’s lap with their heads pressed tightly together, his fingers stroking along Hunter’s lips in between short, breathless kisses. Hunter’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulled him closer, the look in his eyes as close to blatant adoration as Roman had ever seen them.

 

“I love you,” was what Hunter whispered, and for once the statement wasn’t folded into a throwaway sentence, or uttered through a lust-crazed fog, and it burned into Roman’s being with all the sincerity that made it almost unbearable.

 

Love makes fools even out of kings, Roman thought, the words sounding as if they’d been plucked straight from the notes of his rather melodramatic high school history teacher. Then again, Hunter’s kingdom was one made of airwaves and spectacle, a traveling circus of garish colours and loud music, a throne of skulls and a fanfare of green strobe lights and Motorhead. It wasn’t the facade alone that was ludicrious, it was everything that stood behind it and lay at the foundations of it.

 

It didn’t matter. Not in this moment, not in any moment that would follow. Hunter was still his King.

 

“Long live the King…” Roman muttered finally, his voice shaky, the words whispered against Hunter’s cheek.


End file.
